


it's the shame (it's the prize)

by aflashofgreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s08e04 The Last of the Starks, F/M, Jon is drunk and horny but refuses to ask Sansa to fuck him, Light Angst, No Smut, Sansa is a jealous drunk, Season/Series 08, Unresolved Sexual Tension, it's Sansa who visits Jon after the feast, mentions of Jon/Daenerys, no political!Jon, they're both mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21708373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aflashofgreen/pseuds/aflashofgreen
Summary: They both saw it coming, they’ll say when it happens.A different woman visits Jon after the feast.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 149





	it's the shame (it's the prize)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from In This Shirt by The Irrepressibles

“Come in.”

Sansa steps into the room, closing the door behind her. The sight of her is unexpected.

Her eyes travel over him and she asks, “Are you drunk?”

He gets up from where he was sitting at the foot of his bed and almost trips. There goes her answer. “You encouraged me,” he tries to joke.

“I’ll call for someone to help you change,” she half mocks him. “Just don’t drown in your vomit, will you? I fear for your reputation should you go out in such an undignified way after surviving an undead dragon.”

“I’ve never been very dignified.”

She almost smiles. “Fair enough.”

His eyes fall on her gown, its scale-like texture so different from the pattern that often adorns Daenerys’ own clothes, a visual nod to the creatures the dragon queen calls her children, a nod to her bloodline. Jon’s bloodline. He pictures Sansa humming to herself as she stitched the shiny material together, remembering a woman from their past, a different life.

“Your dress. For your mother?”

Her hands glide across the fabric of her skirts, Jon’s eyes following. “I made it a while ago. There wasn’t an opportunity to wear it until now.” When she looks up to him, he has the vague impression she’s daring him to object or speak ill of the woman who never accepted the presence of her husband’s bastard under her roof. Had Jon no knowledge of what awaits one when one dies, he would have bet Catelyn Stark is laughing right now, enjoying his turmoil, cursing him for more. Jon, the boy, had been innocent, but the man? The former Lady Stark had been right to loathe him all along. Neither one of them would find peace in the truth.

He wonders if Sansa will stitch him new clothes in red and black when he shares it with her. He wonders if it would hurt him more than her outright rejection. Jon is damned either way.

He tells her as much.

“You look pretty.” Her hair is shining and aglow from the flames nearby. Kissed by fire. “Lucky,” he recalls faintly.

Whether she heard this last admission, Jon doesn’t know. Sansa ignores all of his statements in favor of walking to his desk where a maid left a jug of wine and pouring herself a glass.

“Why did you come?” He wonders at loud.

The hearth is alive and Sansa walks to it like a moth drawn to a flame, not sparing a glance in his direction, holding on to her glass with both hands. She drinks from it once before she answers.

“I’m not sure.”

Jon would like her to leave, but he’s incapable of telling her as much. He’s too drunk for whatever argument this will end in. He half expects to hear a second knock on his door at any moment, a different woman standing on the other side of the wood, different expectations and demands ready to fall from her rosy lips. Sansa shouldn’t be here when it happens. He has half a mind to drag her to the corridor and lock the door behind her so neither she nor Daenerys can bother him.

He has half a mind to fall to his knees and beg her to let him taste her like he had dreamed the other day, when he stumbled to his bed after their victory against the dead and he had finally been able to close his eyes. Forbidden images of Sansa had floated in his mind then, and he had almost been capable of recalling them with no shame when in his conscious state his hand found its way to his cock.

The feeling had caught up with him afterwards, anyway. It always found him. He’s running a fool’s errand. Sansa said she has faith in him, but he knows it is so little compared to all the ways she expects him to let her down — again. They both saw it coming, they’ll say when it happens.

The clink of the glass as she settles it on the mantle of the fireplace pulls him away from his thoughts, though her words echo them regardless.

“Will Daenerys visit you when I’ve left–”

“Sansa,” he warns her.

“Or will you go to her?” Her eyes move away from the fire. He’s tempted to believe the flames are still reflected in them when they land on him.

“That’s none of your business.” The discreet tilt of her head is so much worse than anything else. Sansa was not a mean child, not on purpose at least, but she’s honed it into a skill since then. There’s strategy behind her ways now.

“No. Our army’s whereabouts, however,” she trails off. “Everyone is tired. They deserve to rest.”

“You know as I do there’s a war council planned for tomorrow.” _Hold off your tongue till then if you must_ , he means. _Better yet, do not speak at all of treason._ “I told you and everyone what pledges I made to her.”

They had been laughing together only moments ago at the feast. The smile on her lips, the spark in her eyes, her joy a callback to the girl who had worn every emotion on her face. Warmth had spread to his bones for the first time since he was brought back to life. Tormund kept refilling his cup and Jon had gladly drank from it each time, his mind blissfully quiet.

The cold has returned to him now, every word dipped in it. “If you want me to say I won’t command our army south, you’ll be disappointed.”

“Will you even come back this time? I don’t imagine she will. She’ll ask you to stay by her side or perhaps you’ll offer.”

He wants to scoff. Now more than ever, the last thing he expects Daenerys will do is ask him to linger in the capital or around the throne. “You’d be surprised what she wants.”

“No, I don’t think I would,” she says softly, her stare no less harsh. He’s tired of this, tired of trying to find the true meaning hidden in her words.

“She’ll be out of Winterfell soon, Sansa. The sooner, the better, isn’t it? Let it happen.” He sighs before adding, “I won’t stay in King’s Landing.”

“I’m afraid of what will happen in the meantime,” she finally reveals. Honesty at last, although it surprises him.

“Brienne isn’t going anywhere,” he offers as reassurance. "You can ask Lord Royce and his men to stay longer.”

All he earns is an eye-roll. Her eyes were always more candid than her tongue.

“I’m not worried about my safety, Jon, I’m worried about yours,” she replies almost angrily.

“So were you the first time I went south. I came back, didn’t I?”

“And look where we are now.”

“Alive.” The word is poison tonight.

“Do you feel alive, Jon, truly? I don’t. I eat and I sleep. During the day I oversee the rebuilding of our home. It seems I’ve been doing so since we got it back. When it is done, perhaps then I’ll feel real at last. Or your queen will come back after all once you’ve helped her secure her throne, to burn me and then I’ll be alive no longer for good.”

On impulse, his feet take him to her, his breath coming in sharply. “What did you tell her, Sansa?”

“Will you stand by her side when she does too?”

It’s as if he hasn’t spoken at all. Jon is mildly aware she never truly did care for his opinion. He envies her. He wouldn’t hesitate for a moment if he thought there was a chance that he might ever return the sentiment.

Sansa closes the final space between them, his hands finding her waist of their own accord. She doesn’t push him away and perhaps that’s worse. Despite the connection, Jon has never felt more distance between them. She stands tall before him, a statue of some forgotten ruthless god come to life, condemning him for the crimes of his past and those he’s yet to commit. He’ll never earn her forgiveness.

He should’ve died the other night. The crypts are no place for a Snow, less so for a Targaryen; they could have buried him in the lichyard. He would have been more useful to her then, feeding her soil. Her loyal servant after all.

“You’re not dead. You’re not dying.”

“I don’t believe you.” It’s a challenge.

She sealed his fate long ago. It was only ever a matter of time when he would prove her right. Make her judgement a prophecy come true at last. In her eyes, he sees the flicker of recognition before it happens. All the sharpness has left her when their lips meet. It will come back tomorrow, though.

Jon is damned either way.


End file.
